


Sex, Drugs, and Rock n' Roll

by black_hat_with_bells



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Dark fic, Drugs, F/M, dub-con, strong consent issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_hat_with_bells/pseuds/black_hat_with_bells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From prompt: Sylar/Elle - "AU. Elle is a punk rock frontwoman. Sylar is her guitarist, and he wants the spotlight".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex, Drugs, and Rock n' Roll

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stainofmylove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stainofmylove/gifts).



> written for the syelle prompt meme on lj. Prompt was: "Sylar/Elle - AU. Elle is a punk rock frontwoman. Sylar is her guitarist, and he wants the spotlight." --stainofmylove
> 
> Warning: strong consent issues and un-beta'd.

They all loved her.

The crowd. The mosh pit was swelling up with their bodies slicked back with sweat and bumping against each other, and she stood above them.

Elle ‘Ellectric’ Bishop. Her hair was so blonde in the light that it was bright white, almost silver-ish, with blue and pink showing up here and there. Her body shone, her lips glittered metallic, hard and soft, and out of her mouth came this beautiful voice. This voice was too big for the girl, way too big for her small frame. Just like that guitar was too big for her lithe hands.

Her fingers…well, those hands. Skilled and retaining a life and knowledge of their own, little sun-kissed birds striking every key as if it were home.

She was the music. Sylar had read the papers, the reviews. This music spoke from inside the person, telling them what they always knew but had never been able to put down. Almost unearthly intuition, with these words singing down—or from—one’s heart.

She was a siren, controlling their every motion. A puppet-master. He wasn’t blind. He was in the shadows, strumming away and as rigid as a ironing board. He saw that she controlled not only their motions but their emotions. ‘I know you inside out’ she seemed to say, and there was this girl in the front row being battered around by the crowd as if she were lost at sea but clinging to Elle like an anchor.

Sylar could see a smile that was usually consigned to childhood and lost upon entry into middle school. A sincerely elated, joyful, grateful…loving smile. The girl reached out her hand to Elle.

And Elle sang, making love to them all. He wanted to blot that out and say ‘fucking them all’ but…he so hated to be inaccurate.

In this place, (in this house of sin, his mother would have christened it), the world waited outside and everyone loved and hated together. It was Never-never land, and this picture of youth dancing around on the stage made it…

Made it transcend the mundane.

Elle Bishop, escape artist. Elle Bishop, saint to the hopeless. Elle Bishop, artiste. Elle Bishop, bitch.

Because while they were all together in this crowd, with Elle in her tight pants and shirt that hung off of her, Sylar was choking on the aftermath, on the smoke from the special effects, with his calloused hands. He was choking on his envy that came up like vomit while he strummed and strummed away.

He hated her. She had stolen his music. The spiteful evil…

Elle Bishop, whore of Babylon.

***

Gabriel Gray had wanted to be something different all his life. He wanted it so but…didn’t have the talent. Maybe that wasn’t right. He had the talent but he didn’t have IT. His mother hated music. He was a natural, but he was a natural at anything.

‘You lack heart’

No, he lacked a brain. Thanks for playing. Because only an idiot would go through this humiliation, this prostitution. Elle had ‘discovered’ him on his first try at playing at a club.

It was a small club. A very small club. It might not have technically been a club. He sat in the light and choked. He could play other people’s songs well. None of his own. That was against him. And that despite his technical correctness, every person at that club merely stared at him, uninvolved and sitting there like lumps of clay. It was like playing for one’s music teacher (the one his mother never could afford)

His dad leaving them was the only reason that he could have time to practice on his own. It was a sign, and one he was grateful for, but if this…

His chance was an unmitigated disaster and he couldn’t mope about it because nothing had technically gone wrong. So, he hadn’t been asked back. He shouldn’t have worried. No one had been told about his attempt.

He knew, and that meant the world knew. He sat down on the curb as everyone left and felt like destroying this guitar. Bashing it against the street. Running it over in a car. Jumping on it. He wasn’t picky. He plucked a few strings, feeling the sensitive pads of his fingers protest.

Good.

He hoped his fingers burned when he went to work tomorrow.

That night, it had started to drizzle. Of course. The curb was wet on his khaki’s and his glasses fogged up. He didn’t want to move. He thought about those times he had listened to his dad’s old records. He-

A nickel bounced off his knee and hit the asphalt.

“Oh great, they’re throwing things at me now,” he complained loudly, glaring up and ready to bare his teeth. “Sure why not?”

“Better a nickel than some things, Wolfie.”

The woman in front of him was beautiful. The sight of her hit low. It was as if she had materialized from golden air and glistening snow, from the blue sky, rather than this muggy town. He looked at her purple pumps rather than her face.

“You haven’t been showered with a bunch of condoms, for instance.”

His breath caught. “Uh,” he offered. She knelt down—beautifully of course—and touched his knee. Her nails were etched in lightning designs, and it was a good choice. The touch went straight to his nerve endings.

“Why so glum?”

“Uh. I. I missed my shot. I was really bad. I think I probably convinced several people to commit suicide.”

“Hey now, that means you’re good,” she joked.

He shook his head. “Unintentionally.”

“Well, I hope Jude takes a hint. He owes me some money, and said I was part of his will. He’s a liar though. It’s why I like him.”

“Jude?”

“The guy who owns this bar. Long story.” She tilted her head, a half smile playing along her lips. “I heard you tonight. You’ve got great hands.”

She moved his hands gently from the guitar—which balanced in his lap—and pried his clenched fists open. She caressed his fingers, studying them, and he had no saliva quite suddenly. Was this really happening?

“See? They’re so long.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, gaping.

“You can hit so many notes at once. Make those strings vibrate, hit just the right spot, run your-.”

“Uh-huh.”

Elle smiled at him. Let go of his hands, which he hated, but took off his glasses, sliding them right off of his face. It was a strangely intimate gesture, and should have made him feel naked, but he liked the feeling. He liked the submission.

She studied him now. His cheeks burned. His heart pounded.

“You know. I have a band, and I’m in desperate need of a guitarist. The other guy…”

“Another long story?” he chanced.

“You catch on fast. So would you like the rock the world with me?”

“Yes,” he said, a little bit in awe and a little bit breathlessly. He didn’t think he could say no.

She stood up and he blinked as if a spell had been broken.

“Good. We leave on tour tomorrow night.” She dug through her purse and brought out a card. “This is my manager’s number along with the band’s name—you’ll have to know that, right—and you should get in touch with her tonight so you can get a hotel room, okay. I’ll see you later, Killer.”

She had walked quite a few steps away before he got his voice back.

“Wait what?”

“Oh.” She turned back, swinging a little in her steps, lithe and playful. “I’m kinda sorta famous.”

She waved with her fingers, winking at him, and a limo drove up to pick her up and…

A limo.

He looked back at the card.

‘Elle ‘Ellectric’ Bishop…star. A star. He had seen her on a billboard once, and…

He had remained in place for several hours, unable to get up.

***

If Gabriel hadn’t been such a loser, he couldn’t have gone.

It was typically Elle self-absorption though at the time, he thought it was a sign. That talent had recognized another true talent. Simple as that.

He never told his mother. As far as she knew, he was still tinkering around in his shop, dying of rot and lack of stimulation. Those clocks would out live him and probably mean more.

He remembered the first day he had walked on the bus. There was a bass player, a pianist--no wait, a guy who played a keyboard (not the same thing in Gabriel's opinion), a drummer, the maintenance team, the PR person, the body guards—yes body guards—(if he had even sneezed that night, his head would be used as a bowling ball)

They had stared at him like he had blundered on the wrong bus but Elle had leapt to her feet and had given him a hug.

“Everyone, this is Gabriel. He’s part of our happy family now.”

She kept her hand at the small of his back, as if preparing for him to run.

“Hi,” he said.

“So. What’s your stage name?” one of them said after awhile.

“…Gabriel.”

“Angel of Death,” another guy said (he found out later Basil—as if the man had the right to make fun of him), and they snickered.

“Really man, what’s your title?”

He looked down at his hands and saw his watch.

“Sylar,” he blurted out, just to have something to say.

They paused, and all eyes were on Elle. She pretended to think about it…then she smiled.

“I told you he was a keeper.”

***

Elle referred to him as her little pet project. She performed reconstructive surgery: she had missed her true calling.

The hotel room was horrible. He was in a box. He wouldn’t have minded. He would have put down his one suitcase and left it at that. He would have slept easily.

But then Elle’s bodyguard had knocked and said that Elle had requested to see him in her room. It didn’t sound like too much of a request.

She had picked out new clothes for him. The works. Dark shirts, dark jeans.

She had plopped herself down on the bed and smiled up at him, her feet hanging off the edge. It was oddly cute.

“Well, aren’t you going to try them on?

He moved to the bathroom.

“No…I want to see how they look on you.”

Sylar---he was Gabriel now—took off his jeans. Quickly. Took off his shirt. Quickly. It was almost as if he did have superpowers. He was Flash.

She frowned for a moment. Then her eyes were all too darkly amused.

“You look good, Killer.”

Back in his own room, he hit himself in the face. Hard. Several times. Slapslapslap—

Hit the backboard of the bed, hit his chest, his legs—so fucking stupid.

“Whatever’s going on in there, cut it out. I’m trying to sleep!” From next door. He held his hot hands in his face.

So damn stupid.

…

He opened his eyes up. She had done this on purpose.

It was then he began to hate her.

***

The early seeds of hatred were nothing compared to the boiling in his brain now.

She kissed other men. She smoked like a fish. He’d have to listen to her fuck in the next room, usually. This was on purpose too. Oh, she’d be kind of his face, but he had just now figured out what had happened.

She was using him. He didn’t have any talent. She had known it and had drug him up from his happy ignorance to shove him out into public humiliation.

He used to like his music.

Honestly. Now, as he played a show or sat quietly in the back of the bus, he began to plot for a way to take away what she loved. The show would go on. He’d show her. He was better than she could ever hope to be, the bubbly little bitch.

At first, he imagined fucking her with a faulty condom. Can’t jump around like Tinkerhell with a baby bump. And that’d be his baby. She could stay at home with it, but he knew he’d be the one who raised his own child.

Bad idea.

Tamper with the electric wiring and really watch her light up a show? Ohh. So tempting and he wouldn’t get caught with that one. But then again, he couldn’t see her humiliation. And he so wanted to see it.

Cut the brakes and let her pretty face be bashed in against the steering wheel? He saw the bridge of her nose break against the steering wheel, saw the glass tear the flesh off her face…

Hmm. He’d put that one aside for now.

He could tamper with her clothes and have them fall off in public?…No, she’d like that.

He could kidnap her and lock her up somewhere but she’d be a larger than life legend. A mystery. Who’d want to give her that?

Acid in a drinking cup?…She’d clutch her throat while her vocal cords burnt and sizzled like bacon. She’d squawk like a pretty parrot. Everyone would lose her number, except for him, and with the contract being what it was….the show must go on.

Yet. He put his fingers to his lips, thoughtful. He wanted to hear her voice. That, he liked.

He wanted to hear ‘Gabriel, I couldn’t do this without you. Gabriel, you’re so talented. Gabriel, I need you’.

…

The bus went over a bump, and broke him out of his thoughts.

So damn stupid.

***

Sylar had almost abandoned any plans for her destruction.

Either, he was too in danger of being caught, or it’d work out for her advantage in some way. And some ideas where just stupid—cutting off her hair would be a statement of some sort damndamndamn.

If he ruined her looks, for instance…only he would look at her yes, but look at what he had ruined. It was both tantalizing and self-tormenting. He had just about given up.

But then the answer revealed itself.

They were at a club. Not performing but for once, being entertained. It was yet another show of all the things he could not do. He had slumped in his seat and glowered at the show, unable to enjoy it. Elle had insisted he sit by her, and he was surprised when she touched his arm to get his attention.

Her breath was wet and hot against his ear.

“See the back-up singer over there?”

Of course. “I see him.”

“He got really hooked to the needle last year.”

“Now that’s too bad.” All the people who were famous did not deserve it. Not. One. Little. Bit.

“That scares me the hell out of me. I…went through a hard time, once, with that kind of stuff.”

A light went off in his head.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I would have never of guessed due to how confident you are….”

She smiled sadly and put her hand over his.

He’d have to find some of the most addictive, hardcore substances in this state. Considering where he was, that wasn’t hard to do.

***

The first time he drug her drink he thought he had given her a bit too much.

Her speech—her beautiful, goddess-laced speech—turned to one big slurring muddy mess. On their couch—a richer than god couch—she slumped in her sheer nightie, staring at him with dull, dazed eyes, her mouth slightly open and glistening.

“Wh’z the floor….growing…”

He looked down, pretending to seriously consider the question and hiding his smile. She trusted him so much—dull, dull man that he was, a definite country boy—that the bodyguards were outside. No one had seen him mix her drink. No one would—

“Shhhh, look it. It’s having sex!”

He looked at the floor.

“That’s the new and improved feature. It’s in all the best hotels,” he said and put an arm around her quivering little frame. Smiled into her hair and breathed her in.

“It’s okay. Just lean on me. I’ll take care of everything.”

She went to bed with a headache, her world still spinning and her heart beating against her chest. In fact…he carried her to her bed, turned out all her lights, and kissed her forehead. Tucked her in, his palms still drenched in her sweat.

In his room, he breathed her in, studying his palms.

Right where she was always meant to be.

***

Sylar was so trusted that he started to take her calls for her. Answer her emails (A great way to charm and make friends with the higher ups in the business)

He’d go to meet with the managers while she took another drink that she had to have.

“Damn egotistical artists,” the director spat when she had thrown up in her dressing room. “What the hell am I going to shoot today?”

Sylar said, all innocence, “Well. It isn’t not too late. I can take up the singing part, or help her along. At least I could be the only one playing the guitar and I can dance well enough.”

“Well enough,” the man in the suit sniffed.

“I can do it.”

And he did. The music video was shoot with Elle barely there—if she was at all—mouthing the words and struggling to maintain a smile while he took up the slack. He had watched her enough, more than enough, to imitate her…and outclass her entirely.

Seeing her so helpless—after what she had done to him—gave him the courage that he needed. Afterwards, the director had looked at him with new eyes.

Elle had leaned against him, saying a prayer of thank-yous into his shoulder. He felt that low hot feeling again but fought it off. Had to fight it off.

Then…came the song. Elle had written it in bed, drinking heavily and constantly hungry—she looked so pale and wilted. But she had increased his payment. If only she had known that he was using a good portion of her money to destroy her. That’s materialism for you.

He sat by her side, stoking her hair.

“I just have to get something down, or I’ll breach my contract,” she blubbered. “Oh this is going to suck so bad, but I have to have something. They won’t love me anymore.”

Sylar paused at that last part, hesitating for the barest of seconds…and then plunged ahead.

“Just write down what you feel. Here, take another drink. Maybe it’ll give you inspiration. Hey, if you want, say I helped you and all the…sucky parts are mine.”

She smiled up at him, and something in his chest twisted.

He ignored it, taking the song to the studio while she slept. While it wasn’t as great as her other songs had been, he had read over it. And made improvements. The structure was there, and the spark of potential was there: he just improved upon it.

Vastly.

And she had credited him for some things. The manager read the song’s words from behind his desk and then narrowed his eyes

“You co-wrote?”

“Yes,” Sylar breathed, standing perfectly still in this richer-than-any-deity room. Did he go too far, reveal too much?

“…I’m going to have to talk to you more later. You’ve got real talent here, son.”

He closed his eyes. Amazed. Elated.

“Thank you. I had a good teacher. You could call her my muse.”

***

They eat together in silence.

Elle looked too bright, too aware, and he didn’t like that. There was nothing planned though, and he had to go made several deals to get enough of his supply. So, he ignored it.

“You know, I’m so thankful for you. I guess I’ve been so tired, but I feel like a lot of people have moved away from me. Just abandoned me when I needed them most. You didn’t.”

Ah. Sylar had been behind some of the in-fights of the band. Misinformation, secret resentments…hey, there were already there. It wasn’t his fault at all.

He sipped his water, hiding his smile. Life was very good tonight.

“I’ll always be here when you need me, Elle,” he said. “I owe you that much.’

He held her hand under the table, and wow, he felt such a connection with her tonight. He felt all warm inside, and his skin on her skin started to feel as if he was experiencing every molecule of her, feel as if his every sense was heightened. It felt like silk under his skin.

He beamed at her, and she beamed back. The warmth bubbled up some more, curling up lowlowlow, and he couldn’t stop smiling.

Sylar looked at Elle in the lighting of the room, and…suddenly the wave of arousal hit him like a truck. He stifled a groan and felt his erection straining against his jeans.

What…what…

Elle stood up, swaying her hips and she leaned over him, putting her arms on either side of the chair. He felt her breath and he shuddered. He leaned forward without knowing it, but she pushed him back.

Her hand on his chest was….he sighed. Then caught himself. Then the humiliation happened. Her eyes glanced downwards.

“Why hello there, little Killer. I didn’t think you existed before now!”

Her mouth formed a comical O, and he flinched at her tone. But then she leaned in and nuzzled his neck, running her tongue across the sensitive skin below his ear. He couldn’t stifle his moan, even though clenched teeth. He arched his body desperately when she pulled away.

However, Sylar was distracted enough that the presence of the metallic handcuff around his left wrist had escaped his noticed.

She quickly clapped on the other cuff when he was struggling with that one, and everything got all confused.

His erection hurt by now.

“Elle, what’re you doing? Don’t you know this can hurt me?”

“Is that cuff too tight?” She smiled.

“No, but-.”

She reached forward and tightened the grip tremendously. He screamed. A little.

“I gave the boys a night off,” Elle explained when the guards didn’t come rushing in. “I didn’t want them to interrupt our playtime together.”

“You’re crazy,” he said. Still panting and aching.

“Oh fuck you up the ass with a chainsaw,” Elle spat and crossed her arms, her blue eyes lighting up dangerously.

“…Is that literal or metaphorical?”

Elle stuffed a napkin in his mouth. He gagged but didn’t want to show too much alarm or arousal. The second one was impossible.

“I’m still not a rude neighbor,” she said primly. She perched on the edge of the table and placed her bare foot right against his crotch.

She rubbed her foot, just so, and his eyes rolled up in his head. To his horror, he lifted his hips up. Wanting her.

She giggled. “Oh you. I would have thought a potential date-rapist would have a higher-threshold. Or maybe that’s the point.”

Rub, rub, rub. He wanted to cry in frustration and over-stimulation, but he had to listen. How much had she known?

“I knew you drugged my drink the first time. That drug was one of my old favorites, and I pretty much recognized the taste again. Got to say, I was surprised! Dear Gabriel wants to rape me? Ohh, intrique.

But actually, you didn’t want to fuck me like that at all, did you? No, you wanted to fucked with me!”

She jammed her foot down.

He screeched behind the napkin, dripping with sweat. And he was still hard as a rock.

“That really hurt my feelings. At least you could have put out.”

Then she resumed the friction, all smiles. “I faked how bad off I was. I wanted to see how far you little nasty, covetous, envious, fucked up peanut of a soul would take this game. Murder? No. Not that you don’t have the uh, stones for it…I don’t think you wanted to risk not getting away with it.

Instead, you wanted to hook me on drugs and have me eating out of the palm of your hand. Clever, I must admit. You’ve got balls, Gray, oh yes, you do.”

She lunged forward, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“I like a man with balls. It’s kind of a perquisite to fucking me.”

What. His mind stalled as she kissed him hard, biting his lip and drawing blood. His body responded despite any resistance. In fact, there was no resistance. When she straddled him, he thrust against her frantically.

“What do you want?” Elle asked, purring. “Little ol’ me?”

He nodded, whimpering. Every part of himself was open and wanting this feeling to end. He needed release. He was going to die if he didn’t…

“I don’t know. Even with the extra helping of ectasy in your system...I'm just not sure. Prove it to me. Beg for it.”

He whimpered his own vocal cords off, and when she finally unzipped his pants and grabbed him roughly, he could only barely stay conscious while the waves of pleasure intensified to pure pain.

The orgasm was pathetically quick and rough.

She held his limp dick in her hands, and he looked away. Without the desire, there was only humiliation.

Elle cleaned him off with another napkin and zipped up his jeans, carefully.

“I don’t want to be fucked. I’m sure you understand.”

He chewed on the napkin, and she sighed, pulling it out with some distaste.

“I’m sorry I did all that,” he blurted out.

She slapped him hard, the ring on her finger leaving an indent. “No you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not. I wish I had gotten you so drugged out of your mind that I’d fucked you into the ground and-.”

“Oh that’s better,” she said, her eyes fluttering.

Sylar started at her. Not sure where this was going.

“So, the show tomorrow is late, but we need to get set up pretty early. My agent is being a bitch, so I need my beauty rest. You should get some too…”

She touched his cheek, lovingly and unlocked the handcuffs. To say he was confused would be an understatment. Then he thought like she would. Like he would.

“…This is being recorded for blackmail, isn’t it?’

She raised one shoulder in a casual gesture. Of course it was. Along with drug test and probably pictures of him actually purchasing drugs.

“You still want me,” he said, eyes widening.

“No, I still need you.”

Something in his chest clenched again. “Elle…”

“Save it, hot stuff. Tomorrow is a new day. You can think of bad things to do to me then, huh? I do like to keep my life extreme...and turn you loose on my competition. I bet you can make some fucked up music videos too, you freak," she said and laughed. Not without affection.

It seemed like a challenge. So he promised to do so with a half smile of his own.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said at the door.

“I’m counting on it,” Elle said and shut it in his face.

***

The next show time, since he had shown her he could actually dance while she was faking being drugged, she allowed him his moment. When he proved he could actually think of words for a song, she consulted him and shared ideas.

And the next hotel room had them sharing it together.

Handcuffs included. They were kind of a prerequisite for living extreme.


End file.
